Res Ipsa Loquitur
by Sychronergy
Summary: If things were meant to be, they would always find a way together again. If not, well, just look at Romeo and Juliet. AU Grimm/Ulqui.


**Res Ipsa Loquitur  
**_[Sychron]_

GrimmXUlqui

* * *

Grimmjow really shouldn't ask for more. He easily lived the American Dream, from the white picketed house (`cept it was more of a mansion), to the fresh, honeyed eyed blonde hanging off his arm. There wasn't anything wrong with the image, just like how there wasn't anything wrong with his life. People openly stared at him in envy as he strolled down the street, and he dismissed every stare with a smirk of pride. Men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him –he knew that story perfectly.

He whistled when he stopped in front of his favorite café—Heaven, and pushed the door open. The woman finally unwrapped herself from his arm, and he glanced at her curiously. She seemed beautiful in the morning sun, soft light falling around her in a golden halo. Her designer outfit teased and brushed the line between formal and indecent.

"I have to go to work now," she said sadly. Her mouth formed a small pout, an expectant look creeping into her large eyes. Up close, he could see the fine powder of her makeup and the black charcoal of her eyeliner: signs that her beauty was as artificial as the products she piled onto her face. It immediately sparked a flash of repulsion within him.

"Okay," said Grimmjow. He gave her the perfunctory kiss. On her cheeks because hell would freeze over before he accidentally stained his own lips with that disgusting bright cherry red paste. Behind her, a huge truck drove by. The images on the side of the truck were lewd; a busty model barely clad in a flimsy bed sheet. He was surprised when he saw that the truck was for an organic orange juice company. _Real relevant._

If that woman kissing him back noticed his lack of attention, she didn't show it. Grimmjow allowed her to go without asking for her phone number, to asking her to meet again. It was how his world work; there was never a short of women who wanted to be on his arms, and he simply didn't do commitment.

Heaven was not one of the high-end, expensive cafés that his colleagues preferred. That was exactly why he loved the place. The dark wooden walls were cozy and snug in a welcoming way, and their coffee was strong. The lightning was dim, and sent half the shop to the shadows. The customers were usually middle class, the kind that loved minding their own business. It was what he needed before he head into his corporate world of elitists co-workers, false niceties and demanding clients.

He sat at his usual place near the counter, and waved at the girl behind the counter. The orange haired girl smiled back, a bright, warm smile that was part of why he always chose Heaven. Orihime had worked there for years, and she knew what to get him. He always had the same, a black coffee with a green apple Danish. Green, because red apples were overrated and too sweet.

As Grimmjow settled himself for breakfast, his mind wandered back to the project he was suppose to complete in two weeks—Aizen wanted him to oversee an expansion to a foreign nation, some obscure corner of the world he never knew existed. It called for delicate research (that he'd send to his subordinates), extreme planning (he'd come up with something in due time), and acute analysis (that's why they had a whole team of analysts).

Basically, he didn't have to shit to do.

For all formality's sake, he worked as the Vice President of Sales and Marketing for _Las Noches_, one of the most successful multi-national, multi-billion advertising companies. He unofficially ranked fifth in the corporation since the official fourth was missing and had been missing. You really couldn't get higher than that without owning a substantial amount of stocks. Or lucky birth. The _trash_ that served as the unofficial fourth (formally fifth) got there by lucky birth; Nnoitra Gilga was the son of the Chief of Board of Director, and he easily slipped into his position like he belonged there.

That reminded him. A new rank was joining the officers, a transfer from one of their oversea rivals. Aizen hinted that the man would settle into a single digit rank, and Aizen looked far too excited when he made the announcement two days ago. The name wasn't released, as per their custom, but Grimmjow found that he really couldn't give a damn. Ranks were assigned and stripped in matter of days, and he highly doubt that the newcomer would be the new, permanent Fourth.

A permanent Fourth would push Nnoitra down to Fifth, and he'd be Sixth, so he didn't look forward to having a Fourth anyway.

Orihime's chirpy voice interrupted his train of thoughts, and he forced himself not to wince, "You know, you're on the newspaper again!"

Grimmjow reminded himself to bring the customary smirk back into his face, and cocked his head arrogantly. _There's nothing unusual about there_, he wanted his body language to say. It worked.

"That happens," he said. He never understood talkative moods, since he could never find any reason to sit and chat. If he was happy, he would celebrate. If he was angry, he would head to the gym. If he felt like fucking, to the bar. Absolutely no reason to talk.

"Your new girlfriend is very beautiful," said Orihime. She placed his food on the counter, and stood there, hands folded behind her back. Her knee-length dress and modest uniform complemented her gentle posture perfectly.

"Not my girlfriend," said Grimmjow. The girl that accompanied him here –he didn't even know her name—was merely one of the many girls that set their eyes on him last night when he visited the bar. Plenty more where she came from; all glittering jewels, and haughty skirts. He prided himself in his ability to get any girl, and most important, get any girl into any position he wanted.

Again, _that happens._

"Not your girlfriend?" repeated Orihime. Her eyes gleamed in way Grimmjow came to associate with females when they were excited by tidbits of exclusive information. Apparently, even the shy Orihime was no exception.

"Women all want me," smirked Grimmjow. He knew Orihime wasn't surprised or impressed, but at the same time, he wasn't trying to impress her. They had gone over that, many times, before Orihime gave him a firm _no._ It wasn't as though he was actually attracted to anything more than her large _assets_, and he knew where to find plenty of those, so he agreed. They settled into a calm companionship, and it lasted to this day.

Orihime smiled, a knowing smile that made him blink twice, "Do you have someone?"

"That's some real silly bullshit," said Grimmjow.

"You have too many to pick from to pick just one," said Orihime. She giggled, a shy little flutter that made Grimmjow cock an eyebrow.

"Ya say it like I actually want to," he retorted. He didn't believe in the happily married life shit. Besides, he could see the desire for his money or physical body in all the women's eyes. None of them were after him to _settle, _they weren't the kind to stay faithful even if he tried. The freedom was what he loved the most in his life, and he wouldn't be able to find a woman worth exchanging it for.

"But sometimes, you get this look in your eyes, as if someone already holds your heart," said Orihime. Her brown eyes were innocent, but far too knowing, too sympathetic. She tucked a strand of orange hair back behind her clip, and smiled gently.

Grimmjow scoffed at the notion, running his hand through his hair. His gaze shifted from her full figure to the painted bamboo forest on the far side of the café. The shade of green was perfect; it complemented the cozy air of the café, yet it was sharp and vivid. It was one of those times when denying the suggestion went against everything he wanted to do.

He gave a half shrugged. What did it matter anyway?

"I'm really surprised," said Orihime. "Who is it?"

Grimmjow nearly facepalmed. Why did people always insist on chasing redundant topics? He wanted to shoo her off, tell her that there were other customers she could tend to, but the shop was empty except for an elderly man clearly engrossed in his book in the far corner. Grudgingly, he responded, "An old friend."

It wasn't as though she needed more information, and the less he said, the less she could ask about. It was logical, in his mind. Besides, he didn't have any other way to describe _that_ person anyway. He was telling the truth, and as far as he was concerned, it was the perfect solution.

"Wow! That's really something," said the girl. Her eyes were wide with interest, body tilting forward in excitement. "I'll bet she was really pretty and really smart. Did you not chase her because she was your friend? Why aren't you two together?"

Talking to Orihime about _stuffs like this_ (he really had no other word, but he'd bet anything that the orange haired girl could come up with ten names for it) was never a solution.

"I was lagging _him_ behind," he growled. _Him_, not _her,_ so shoo and go busy yourself while trying hide the awkwardness, he thought to himself. He hated this particular topic, and this particular line of chat. He dared her to challenge every aspect of the sentence, from the professed pronoun to the sheer ridiculousness of the statement.

As if he, Grimmjow, one of the most powerful men in the corporate world could hold anyone back._  
_

To tell the truth in an unbelievable manner was the most beautiful way to lie; he had learn that.

Except Orihime didn't react the way he expected.

Instead, Orihime gasped, clasping her hands in front of her bosom, "You _have_ to tell me all about this."

He didn't. He didn't have to tell her anything. He could have just ate his breakfast in silent, or even just walked out of the café. He could probably even order the cafe to close down after he stormed out in anger. But he didn't know why he opened his mouth and told her all about the owner of the green eyes that haunted his dreams.

His name was Ulquiorra Cifer. They went to college together, and were assigned as roommates in the dormitory. Ulquiorra valued quiet workspace, and he valued loud music. They would fight over everything, and anything. Well, he would, and Ulquiorra would always correct him in that calm, uncaring way. Until that day he realized he was obsessed with, and finally, attracted to his droll roommate. He tried everything to avoid the other, but the phase only lasted so long before Ulquiorra accepted his angry outburst of confession. The relationship lasted two years, in secret, until graduation.

"Then?" asked Orihime. Her voice was hushed now.

"He got an oversea offer for a prestigious position as soon as he graduated," said Grimmjow. He remembered the only two occasions when Ulquiorra smiled. The first was when Grimmjow first kissed him. That was a sly, knowing, and hesitant smile: almost a silent laugh. The second time was when he received the letter. Grimmjow could remember the radiant smile on Ulquiorra's face; he was smiling so hard Grimmjow entertained the notion of alien abduction. The happiness on the usually stoic man was frightening, and Grimmjow remembered the pang in his heart when he realized he didn't cause it.

"He chose his career over you?" Orihime's voice carried a heavy trace of sadness and pity.

Grimmjow snarled at that, "_No_. I left him."

"Why?"

"Cos I was lagging him behind," Grimmjow was sure he already said that. He hated repeating himself, and he was tempted to leave the café. Yet, the issue pressed against his chest for nearly seven years, and the relief at being able to finally speak about it was overwhelming. He was the one who left Ulquiorra the day after he got the letter, before the other woke up. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

"I can't imagine how one of _Las Noches'_ top could lag anyone behind" said Orihime. She looked expectant, as if there was a secret formula in the chemical that made up Grimmjow's past.

"Wasn't always like that," said Grimmjow. "In school, Ulqui was that kid all the parents liked and told their kids to be like. Me, I was the guy the kids actually want to be. The cool kid who probably wouldn't get anywhere in life, but got all the chicks and party invites."

It didn't matter at that time; he was infinitely better because he was more popular, more desirable. He had fun, and he enjoyed life. Then, came the day when he realized Ulquiorra was already applying for jobs, graduating with a near perfect grade average and he barely got his college diploma.

"It must have been a difficult decision," said Orihime.

"I can't watch someone I love to throw away what they've worked for their whole life," Grimmjow said quietly. People worshipped the idea of surrendering a career for love, yet, when it boiled down to it, the same person would ridicule and pity those who did. And few ever considered the consequences for the other. Life wasn't a fairytale or a storybook, and happily ever after couldn't come with the resounding reminder of guilt. Guilt that you ruined the person you claim to love.

It never made sense, how people who claim to be sacrificing for love were only ruining each other. One laden with guilt, and the other blocked from a prosperous future. Perhaps he and Ulquiorra were too proud, too intelligent, or too competitive, but he could not see how anyone could find happiness in holding their loved one back, or being held back.

In the end, Grimmjow would not be the reason his Ulquiorra was stuck in a backward town, unable to accept any better job offerings because all the good openings simply didn't happen in a dead-end town. If it was Grimmjow's fault that he had no future, then he would accept full responsibility.

For Grimmjow, the hardest thing he had ever done was one of the easily decision he ever made.

Orihime was giving him an odd look, a mysterious gleam in her eyes that nearly made him shiver. It was almost predatory. "You said love."

Grimmjow nearly bit himself.

"Not that I actually loved him," he fell quiet, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose to rub away the oncoming headache. It wasn't possible to argue the opposite, not after the last ten minutes of conversation. Not even for the sake of his pride. He closed his eyes. "Whatever."

He would never forget the way Ulquiorra smiled when he got the job invitation.

"I think the same way myself," Orihime nodded. She smiled lightly, her hands playing with a button on her shirt, "I've always thought you were one of the most selfish people I've ever known, but you're really…different."

"Don't think any differently of me," snapped Grimmjow. God be damned if Orihime thought he was _sentimental. _Or worst, weak.

"Never," she chirped. Her voice was happy again, and she took a step back.

Grimmjow waved her away, and she hurried back to her counter. He was going to regret telling any of that, he knew. Yet, in a way, he felt better. Much better.

His eyes drew back to the painted bamboo trees. They were almost the exact shade of Ulquiorra's eyes. The consequences of leaving the only person who made his heart beat twice as fast were torturous. He spent many restless nights dreaming of reunion, dreaming of the _what-if_. Yet, if he could go back in time, it was the decision he would easily make again.

He wasn't sure if Ulquiorra was happy anyway; he had always been demanding and possessive. Double standards of commitment and obedience that Ulquiorra always followed without question. He could fuck any girl, any guy but Ulquiorra was to remain his alone. He had demanded Ulquiorra to do his homework, to help him on the projects, and Ulquiorra had done so. Grimmjow was selfish bastard, and he knew it.

In the end, he couldn't live with himself if he took Ulquiorra's future too.

He had rather free his lover, and one day, meet him at the top. Where Ulquiorra belonged. Where, Grimmjow soon learn, he too could belong.

Where he was at now.

Except he had never been able to find Ulquiorra.

He had tried to replace the man when he couldn't. There were, and he wasn't bragging, hundreds of women and men willing to be wrapped in his arms. Yet, he could never find the same appeal. Most men were too wide, and he wasn't particularly attracted to them anyway. Now, women. He had never been able to find a good match.

Griimmjow remembered dating a particularly beautiful girl, with exotic eyes and long black hair. She was intelligent, independent, and had a great sense of humor. Everyone loved her companionship, and so did he. They spent two months together, and it was the perfect, blissful mixture of peace, fun, and great sex. Then, he started thinking that she was too friendly and too easily impressed. It didn't even make sense, but it started a spiral of negativity where he found her voice too high, scent too flowery, room too colorful- until he couldn't even stand her presence.

At first, he simply thought his standards were too high, but in the end, he realized he had been comparing all his partners to one person, and one person only.

He longed for that condescending, analytic gaze and pale body again. He longed for the monotonic voice (which he had long learned to decipher the emotions behind it), and the simplistic way Ulquiorra viewed the world. The images poured through his mind. In truth, there wasn't one thing he could say he wanted to see more than the other; it was all that made up _Ulquiorra Schiffer_ that he wanted and couldn't ever replace.

Grimmjow wanted to show off his achievements. He wanted to go up to the man, look him square in the eyes, explain why he left 7 years again, and confidently say: I deserve you now.

His eyes itched, and he was surprised the back of his hand wet when he drew it away. He quickly blinked away the rest of the emotion, and schooled his features back into a façade of nonchalance.

He wondered what got into his eyes.

Today, in the morning of a soon-to-be busy workday wasn't time to contemplate his emotions or inner turmoil. He stroll out of the cafe in his usual style, smirk tucked confidently on his lips. The security guards gave him a polite greeting as he entered the building, and he swiped his identification. The elevators were claustrophobic, per usual, and he reminded himself that nothing changed.

Grimmjow was used to it anyway.

He flicked a button out of his shirt, the action clearly rebellious against the dress code, but he knew no one would really dare to say anything to him. There was another man in the elevator, an intern from a supposedly prominent college. The youth bowed politely, in hopes of leaving a positive impression in case they ever met again.

The Vice President of Sales and Marketing smirked at the move. It reminded him of his immense rank. To work under him or any of the single digit ranks was an honor, a position only available through months of consistent connection, prestigious promotion, or reliable recommendation from another single digit rank.

If you had to apply, you won't get the job.

He stepped out of the fiftieth floor, the height yet another reminder of how far he made it in life. It was the third-highest floor that wasn't the president's suite or reserved for board meetings.

Nnoitra greeted him when he approached his office, "Ya sixth now."

"Fuck you talking about?" Grimmjow could never find patience with Nnoitra. Every word the man spoke shorted his patience by at least half, and he never had that much patience to begin with.

"I figure you'd hate it," smirked Nnoitra. "The new guy. He's our new VP of External Affairs. Ya know where that puts him? Fourth."

Grimmjow almost tripped in surprised. He had _never_ heard of any new recruit joining as part of the top tier. He knew that the fourth spot had been empty, with Tousen doubling up to take over the responsibilities. Yet, to be filled by a complete stranger, a complete stranger that was suddenly ranked above him. In a way, he trusted Aizen's judgement, since the man had the most critical eyes for weeding out any talent and potential. But, this promotion came a little too quickly.

Now, he was officially sixth again.

"Bastard better know what's he doing," said Grimmjow, leveling a meaningful glare at Nnoitra's direction.

"Oh, he's real smart, and real organized" said the lanky man. He returned a laced leer of his own, flicking his hair back.

That terminated any patience Grimmjow had with the man.

He slammed the door of his office as he walked in. As he threw his briefcase into the couch, the wind chime he hung near the door rang with the breeze. Most people thought it was weird for a man like Grimmjow to decorate his office with a delicate trinket like that. But, the tinkering sound of glass gently brushing against each other was one of the only things that relaxed him.

Glass wind chimes were one of Ulquiorra's many obsessions; the green-eyed man was fascinated by how the seemingly fragile glass could endure multiple clashes against each other. Grimmjow was kinda fascinated too, as he observed his wind chime. It was almost a magnetic frenzy, how the dozens of green shards always found their way to strike the aquamarine center again, even though the breeze that initially drove it was long gone. The collisions seemed harsh, but Grimmjow had check many times - there were never any scratches. Every piece, whether blue or green, was always undamaged.

In the end, it was only how life worked.

If things were meant to be, they would always find a way together again.

If things were meant to be, they could strike each other repetitively without a scratch.

If not, well, just look at Romeo and Juliet.

Grimmjow would settle and check his E-mail for any urgent business.

Then, he would pay the new Vice President of External Affairs a visit.

He couldn't _wait_ to see who was the new _Fourth_.

* * *

xoxo

**Res Ipsa Loquitur: **Literally, "_The Thing Speaks for Itself"_

Thanks for reading!


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